


Fractured

by PuzzleBot



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Fear, Gen, Pain, Sadness, Tears, anyway, get your kleenexes out, so many tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:44:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzzleBot/pseuds/PuzzleBot
Summary: It had all started with a blasted letter, hadn’t it?





	

It had all started with a blasted letter, hadn’t it? Yes. One addressed to a ‘Professor Desmond Sycamore’, a name he’d chosen himself, and a profession forced upon him by circumstance, ever since that organisation - the same one that now wrote to him - had taken his parents from him. That letter, asking him to join the organisation that had destroyed his life, and signed by none other than _his **own** father_. That had gotten his hopes up. Maybe with him in charge, they’d become better. It became clear as they got impatient and sent more letters - threats, even - to him, that it was not the case. Well if they’d gotten to his father, they sure as hell weren’t getting to _him_. **  
**

So he didn’t reply. After all, the letters were always sent to his office, never to his home; they didn’t know where he lived, they didn’t know he had a family.

That’s what he thought, at least.

The letters stopped after a few weeks of harassment, and he got his hopes up that that was the end of it, but, alas, no.

The next step was to visit him in person. And by ‘in person’, Leon Bronev apparently meant bringing what seemed like a small army to his door in the middle of the night.

He appealed to emotion first, to Hershel Bronev’s longing for this all to have never have happened.

“Hershel, come with me, work with Targent; we’ll get Theodore, be a family again.”

But this _had_ happened, nothing could change that; least of all this warped caricature of his father.

“My name is no longer Hershel. His name is no longer Theodore. And you are no longer our father. You lost that right when you gave us up in your ridiculous search for the Azran.” He spat, fury overwhelming him.

And that’s what did it. It was all his fault they were… It was his fault they…

They died because of him.

A simple hand gesture was all it took for the men to move into position, pushing past him into the house. The aura of absolute malice swept in with them and seemed to dim the already dark house. He hoped to god they didn’t know about his family.

“Get out of here!” He commanded, “I’ll call the police!”

“Desmond? Is everything alright down there, darling?” A voice called from the top of the stairs.

“Call her and your daughter down, ‘ _Desmond Sycamore_ ’. Tell them anything and we’ll shoot all of you.” The Targent leader hissed.

“… Olivia, could you bring Anne-Marie down?” He called, just keeping his voice from shaking and cracking.

A shuffling sound came from the top of the stairs - his wife in her slippers - and the dim stairway light sluggishly flickered on. Quiet voices sounded, and then the soft pattering of feet approached. A young girl plodded tiredly into the room.

“Dad?” She gasped upon seeing the men surrounding her father.

“It’s okay, Anne-Marie, come here, my sweet.” Desmond assured, picking her up.

“How _touching_ … So this is my granddaughter? Anne-Marie, you say?” Leon Bronev purred, not a touch of sincerity in his voice.

“She is not your granddaughter any more than I am your son.”

The older man scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I have every right to call her that.”

Anne-Mariehid her face in her father’s neck, trembling violently with fear. Over her head, Desmond could see Olivia running down the stairs to join them, despite the silent pleas in his eyes.

“Desmond, what’s going on?” She whispered to him, taking the petrified child from his frozen arms.

“Now, my boy.” Bronev cut off the conversation before it could begin, “I think you know my deal. We need your expertise on the Azran people, you quite like your daughter and wife _alive_ , yes?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, _Bronev_.”

Desmond near shook with equal parts terror and rage, eyes flickering around. He looked from his young family, their faces pale with fear, to the Targent troops, guns trained on the three and unblinking, to Bronev, an eyebrow raised above dark glasses.

“And I don’t like non-compliancy. That’s the first thing you should know about how I run Targent.” The older man snarled, “So come with me, before I do something you regret.”

Sycamore’s mind raced. What could he do? Guns were trained on all three of them, ready to strike them down. At the speed of light, he evaluated the situation, all possible exit points. Out the door - impossible - there were too many agents outside. Going upstairs - useless - where then? The kitchen had a spare door, but no - they’d have surrounded that too.

He sighed and raised his hands in surrender, stepping towards Leon Bronev.

“Don’t hurt them. I’ll come with you, as long as you spare their lives.” He said hollowly, not listening to his wife’s desperate, horribly confused protests.

“Dad, where are you going?” Anne-Marie pipes up, her voice quiet, “Why are you going with that meanie?”

“… You’ll understand in time, sweetpea. I’ll be back soon.” Desmond lied through his teeth as men clapped firm hands on his shoulders.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I love you, Anne-Marie. I love you, Olivia. Never forget that, hm?”

“Love you too, Daddy…”

Olivia stared, and, through teary, terrified eyes, nodded.

“Desmond, I don’t know what’s going on, not beyond what you told me, but- Oh my god, Desmond, I love you. Be careful.”

Then the time for brief goodbyes was over, and Desmond was half dragged from the house, forced to leave behind his family and his home. As he was pulled, his heart was too, and it split. The darkness then began to seep in.

_No, he couldn’t leave! He couldn’t do that to Olivia, to **Anne-Marie**!_

In the starry dark of night, with guns trained on him from every direction, Desmond fought, breaking away from the agents. He could hear gunfire, but it didn’t scare him, not more than losing his family.

“Light it!” A barked order from a scratchy, authoritative voice commanded.

Desmond stopped just in time to see his house burst into violent flames. _How could this happen so quickly?!_

“We don’t take non-compliancy, Sycamore. It’s a true shame; you would have been a great asset.”

“You _**monster**_!” The young man roared, frozen in his spot.

“You only had to do as we said. Goodbye, Sycamore.”

Something in the house had exploded, sending flames billowing into the air, a spire of deadly light.

“ _ **DESMOND**_!” The horrendous scream of his wife split the air.

Desmond’s eyes widened. _He **couldn’t** lose them!_ The young Professor raced back towards his flaming home, screaming his family’s names with a shaking voice.

He could hardly hear beyond the snaps and crackles of the flames, not even enough to hear a gun fire, and the cars of the dastardly organisation drive off. Pain exploded into his shoulder, and a searing heat - totally different to the one sent out by his home - radiated through his lower back. Desmond let out a scream of agony. _He had to push through it! For them!_

Their frantic screams and cries echoed in his ears, and it was all he could do not to smash the fiery door down.

“I’m coming, Anne-Marie, **OLIVIA**!”

He staggered to his feet from where he had fallen in pain, trying to push through the blazing door. But somebody had a hold of him. A Targent agent, back to finish him off!

“Unhand me, you _swine_!” Desmond roared, eyes flashing in rage.

In an apoplectic swing of his uninjured arm, he knocked them away, but the shout of surprise that came didn’t sound young.

“Master!” A Scottish voice calls, “You mustn’t!”

“I have to! They’re in there!”

“Master, they’re already gone, and you’re hurt! Stop, please!”

Desmond fought against the hold, but the heat of the fire mixed with the freezing cold of the night sapped his strength, despair weakening his muscles until all he could do was kneel in front of his home, hearing no calls for help. Loud tears of utter anguish wracked his body as his heart.

* * *

It has been many years since that day, and still he is broken, utterly fractured into halves. But the show must go on, isn’t that the phrase?

Jean Descole switches on a smile, the only link left to his past, and begins to write.

_‘Professor Layton,_

_My name is Professor Desmond Sycamore, and I write to you in a request for help. You see, I am in the middle of what could well be the biggest archeological discovery of the century…’_


End file.
